


Fixing Tony Stark's Heart

by EndlessNepenthe



Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Adorable Peter Parker, Amazed-by-technology Bucky is adorable omg, Angst and Feels, Blood and Injury, Clingy Peter Parker, Concussions, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feels, Gen, Hurt, Hurt Tony Stark, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, I wrote this because I need more Tony and Cloak interactions, Platonic Cuddling, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Precious Peter Parker, Precious Tony Stark, Protective Peter Parker, Protective Stephen Strange, Sleepy Cuddles, Sleepy Peter Parker, Sleepy Tony Stark, Steve leaves Tony in a dead suit in Siberia (wait that's canon Steve is terrible wbk), The Cloak of Levitation loves Tony, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Has Issues, Tony Stark Has Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Tony Stark Still Has Arc Reactor, Tony doesn't like people touching the arc reactor (with good reason), Tony getting the care and rest he needs? I love this song, Worried Peter Parker, Worried Stephen Strange, and he would be extra enough to get a whole machine instead of just a cup, okay everyone loves Tony in this (it's what he deserves), please Tony would definitely bribe Wong with his favourite tuna sandwiches to get coffee, stephen strange has a heart, wow there aren't many tags for doctor strange
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-14
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2019-11-18 00:20:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18109484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EndlessNepenthe/pseuds/EndlessNepenthe
Summary: How did Tony get back from Siberia? Did he build something out of snow and fly himself back? Did T’challa give Tony a ride? No one will ever know. MARVEL plz spill the tea.In which Stephen Strange goes to Siberia to save Tony, the Cloak of Levitation is no longer loyal to only one master, and Peter finally understands why Tony is so stressed whenever Spiderman gets hurt.





	1. From Stark to Tony

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just recently jumped aboard the IronStrange train, yay
> 
> Genius level intellect, sarcastic wit, heroically selfless but just a little bit of an asshole? Definitely Tony Stark. But also Stephen Strange. And when both of them collide? A beautiful catastrophe.

_“Please save Tony Stark.”_

Listen, Stephen Strange did not like Tony Stark. Maybe it was because he reminded Stephen of himself, before he’d permanently damaged his hands in the accident, back when he was cocky and self absorbed in his own intelligence. Or perhaps it was because no matter how hard Stephen tries, he simply cannot bring himself to dislike how mouthy Tony was; he loves Tony’s wit, and Stephen hates that he does. Maybe it was because two men with genius level intellect just don’t mix. Every single time Stephen sees the renowned Iron Man armour, a part of him squeals with glee — he’s no mechanic, but even he has no choice but to acknowledge and appreciate Tony’s brilliance, for creating such a magnificent work of art.

“Stark?”

Stephen steps through the glowing circle of sizzling power, and nearly falls flat on his face when there’s nothing solid beneath his feet. The portal he’d opened closes with a few lingering sparks behind him, while the Cloak of Levitation helpfully floats Stephen into the air. He breathes a soft _thanks_ to the Cloak, eyeing the sharp slope of the concrete he’d been dangerously close to tumbling from.

With a light shiver in the frigid air, Stephen surveys the area. It's easily below freezing, thanks to the five tall rectangular openings that seemed to mimic windows with no glass, allowing the brutal winter air of Siberia to flow easily into the large open area. The dreary concrete walls and floor did not offer any form of insulation against the cold, but Stephen supposed the walls at least prevented the sharp winds from sweeping through the room.

He spots the Iron Man armour in front of the window like holes in the wall, softly gleaming bright red and gold in the light, even though it was dead and empty. The helmet is smashed, a half of it damaged beyond recognition, exposing the wires and circuits underneath. A shield, painted the colours of the American flag, lies on the floor a few steps away, a handful of slashes like claw marks marring the otherwise strangely perfect paint. _Captain America,_ Stephen notes. _It really does look like a frisbee._ Then his gaze catches on a body, propped against the wall, tucked away in a corner. The Cloak sets him gently on his feet and Stephen cautiously approaches, something near concern blooming in his heart.

“Stark?”

There’s crimson smearing a side of the billionaire’s face, both dry and fresh. Stephen can’t locate the origin of the blood, but head injuries typically bleed a lot, even with a small wound. He’d never admit that it worried him to realize the force dealt was enough to smash Iron Man’s armour. _Likely a concussion. Lucky if it is only that._

“Stark? Can you hear me?” What was meant to be a sharp demand melted into a gentle inquiry against Stephen’s permission.

Stark’s hand twitches at Stephen’s words, fingers badly scratched and skin raw, evidence of him scrabbling at his suit. Softening, Stephen draws small circles above the back of Stark’s hands, murmuring power into the spell, watching attentively as the pained tremble fades from the slender fingers. Thick lashes flutter, dark eyes cloudy and unfocused when they settle on Stephen.

“Who are you, am I dead?” Stark mumbles with a dazed smile.

“Go,” Stephen whispers to the Cloak. It squeezes his shoulders once, almost reproachfully, before drifting towards Stark.

“No,” Stark whines, attempting to drag himself away. He doesn’t get far — he’s backed in a corner, and Stephen is blocking the only direction he can go. “No, go away,” he growls, pressing himself against the concrete, shrinking away. Stephen is impressed with the strength that Stark has seemingly conjured from nowhere, as the billionaire swings his fists at the Cloak. He'd thought Stark had been dead when Stephen first laid eyes on him, he had been so still.

Patiently, the Cloak waits until Stark exhausts all his energy and stutters to a stop, before sliding around his shoulders. Panting, Stark stubbornly tries squirming away, curling in on himself.

“Calm down,” Stephen advises. “You’re cold, right? It’ll keep you warm.” He doesn’t mention that Stark is likely just minutes from freezing to death, his body having already abandoned the act of shivering to conserve energy.

Stark pauses, allowing the Cloak to wrap around him like a blanket, slowly blinking his wide doe eyes.

_Definitely concussed. Arms don’t look so great, possible breakage. Hypothermia. Can’t tell what else._

Stephen grits his teeth, frustrated. He wanted to catalog the billionaire’s injuries, to gauge how life threatening his wounds were, but he couldn’t risk even lifting Tony’s clothes to check. The temperature is too low, both Tony’s and the general outdoors.

_He's definitely not worried, just being the doctor he is. Yes, that's it. That's all._

“Must be dreaming,” Tony slurs brokenly, and Stephen feels something close to anger with Captain America stir in his belly, igniting with the ease of dead leaves.

Stephen hates how Tony looks so small and defeated, so broken and weak. So unlike his usual strong and sarcastic spitfire self.

_Tony?_

When had _Stark_ become _Tony?_

Stephen finds that he doesn’t care at all.

“Tony,” he tries. Somehow, it sounded so _right,_ so _perfect,_ the two syllables rolling off his tongue so smoothly and so beautifully.

_Why had he even used Stark instead of Tony?_

Stephen Strange does not like Tony Stark. But clearly, he likes him much more than he thought. _Or maybe that was just him denying it._

A sudden thought occurs to Stephen. _Tony Stark isn’t an idiot. He has a suit capable of flight. Why didn’t he fly himself back? Why is he here, freezing to death?_ His eyes drift down, searching for the cool blue light that always glows strong and unwavering, like a miniature blue sun in the center of Tony’s chest. Except the light is barely there, the device dark save for a few weak flickers of the palest blue every few seconds. Alarmed, he shoves Tony’s thin jacket open, pressing a hand to the billionaire’s chest beside the arc reactor.

Tony lifts a hand to bat Stephen away, the fingers of his other hand twisting into the Cloak’s thick material in an attempt to tug it even closer to himself.

“How—” Stephen gasps.

“Don’t touch,” Tony groans, low and guttural.

“No wonder they told me to bring it,” Stephen mutters to himself. He gently rolls up Tony’s t shirt, focused on the cracked arc reactor sitting in the billionaire’s chest.

Tony shakes his head, pushing weakly at Stephen’s hands. The doctor part of Stephen dimly notes that Tony is too far gone to even react to the added cold reaching his now exposed upper torso.

“It’s broken, I’ll replace it.”

“No,” Tony gasps, thrashing around as Stephen attempts to pin him down.

“Stop that,” Stephen reprimands. “I’m trying to help you.”

“Don’t,” Tony whimpers, exhausted and delirious, writhing desperately like a wounded animal fighting for its life.

When Stephen has to quickly lean back to avoid getting a flailing fist to the face, the Cloak tightens around Tony, curling firm and unyielding around his limbs. Tony tugs uselessly against the Cloak, distressed noises rising in pitch, into hysterical ranges. Influenced by Tony’s raw emotions, Stephen feels himself beginning to panic, thoughts flying from his mind.

“No, no. Not like this. Let him go.” _Forcing it from him is not going to be okay. Why is he so distressed? I don’t understand._

Stephen tips back on his heels, resting his hands on his thighs. The Cloak unfurls, and Tony immediately curls his fingers protectively around his arc reactor.

“They told me to bring it, said I might have to replace yours. Your AI, FRIDAY? She told me to,” Stephen blurts, pleased when the words seem to have an effect on Tony. “And, and. That kid. _Your_ kid. ...What was his name again…?”

Tony blinks, eyes clearing for a second. “Kid—” The billionaire breaks off with a weak cough. “Pete?”

“Yes, him! He said his name is Peter? He told me to bring it, too. We have to replace that one, it’s not helping you anymore. Please, Tony.”

“‘s he...Hurt?”

 _Who?_ Stephen pauses. _Oh, the kid._ “No, he’s not hurt. He wanted to tell you something? You can see him later, this is more important.” _You’re_ dying _and all you think about is this kid? Who are you?_ He watches as Tony frowns, throat bobbing as he swallows nervously. “I won’t hurt you, I promise.”

Using magic to make sure his fingers don’t tremble at all, Stephen cautiously reaches out with a hand to gently tug Tony’s unresisting ones away from his chest. Tony jolts, wide eyes liquid pools of terror. Stephen doesn’t miss the way all the muscles under Tony’s skin tense and flex, wanting nothing more than to fight back, because the only thing that keeps him alive is about to be pulled from his chest. But the billionaire is out of energy, having spent more than he had left struggling against the Cloak. _Having hypothermia and a dying heart probably isn’t helping._

“It’s okay,” Stephen murmurs, free hand idly carding through Tony’s hair in reassurance. He removes the dying arc reactor with surgical focus, feeling something in him crack when Tony inhales sharply in fear. Even the Cloak gently slides a corner into Tony’s hand in a consoling gesture as soft whimpers fall from between Tony’s parted lips.

Carefully, Stephen cups his hand in the air, and with a jolt of magic, the new arc reactor he’d been instructed to bring along appears, settling like a paperweight in his open hand. As quickly as he dares, Stephen places it in Tony’s chest, pushing until it’s snug like a plug in a socket. The billionaire chokes on a strangled gasp, back arching off the ground as the new arc reactor suddenly glows a blinding blue. The blue settles into the usual constant glow that is always seen to be residing in Tony’s chest, leaving Tony panting softly and breathlessly as his body adjusts.

Stephen has never been so glad to see a glowing blue triangle in his life. “There,” he praises, adopting the low and soothing tone he used to use with patients at the hospital, “it’s done. That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Only then does Stephen realize that the fingers of one hand are buried in Tony’s brown locks, still unconsciously stroking the silky strands. Tony goes limp and boneless against the ground, eyes fluttering as the fight leaves him like a light switch being turned off. “Wait. Tony, don’t, you can’t sleep yet. Tony!”

And Tony listens, he does. He tries. Stephen sees the billionaire struggle to rally strength his body didn’t have, and lose the battle. It was already a miracle that Stephen hadn’t found him already unconscious.

“Tony. Tony? Shit.”

If anyone had told Stephen Strange, a few days ago — hell, even a few hours ago — that he would instantly jump on board the idea of being the one to save Tony Stark, he would’ve laughed in their face. But it’s happening right now, and Stephen finds himself marveling at how the exact reasons he’d once used to explain his dislike for Tony had suddenly became part of the reasons he liked the man.

Stephen’s displeasure with the billionaire had stemmed from the way he’d seen himself reflected in Tony. No one really likes themselves all that much, even if they come off as narcissistic. But perhaps Stephen likes himself much more than he believed. Maybe it was just because Tony had clearly changed and is still changing his ways, and so is Stephen. Opposites may attract, but there is definitely an undeniable connection through similarities.

_Do not go and fight Steve Rogers, Strange. DO NOT. Priority: Tony Stark._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stephen Strange: *dislikes Tony Stark*  
> Also Stephen: I have personally known Tony Stark for less than five minutes but if anything happened to him...  
> Stephen: Does anyone know where Steve Rogers is
> 
> (Oh my gOSH has anyone seen the official trailer for Endgame?? These white and red uniforms? Thor is going to have a field day complaining about the colours, just like in Ragnarok. Clint and Natasha? A resounding yes from me. bUT WHY IS TONY STILL STUCK IN SPACE? YOU HAVE ONE JOB MARVEL, KEEP TONY SAFE I STG. I thought Nebula was supposed to be on the ship with Tony but the trailer shows her with the gang down on Earth, I've never felt so betrayed in my life. SAVE TONY YOU COWARDS DO WHATEVER IT TAKES)
> 
> (EDIT: HHHHH I JUST NOTICED TONY IS STRUTTING ALONG WITH THE GANG IN THE NEW OUTFIT I'M SO GLAD ASDKJSHGKL MARVEL DO US A SOLID AND KEEP HIM ALIVE THANK)


	2. Magical Leaves

Tony slowly wakes to the uncomfortable feeling of being smothered by overwhelming heat. He can feel the short, soft hair at his nape clinging to the skin of his damp neck, and his brain is hindered by something much more unnatural than just sleep. Vigilant, Tony regulates his breathing and calms his heart rate, using all his senses besides sight to try and determine where he might be.

_Not a hotel room, doesn’t smell like cleaning products. Bed’s too soft for anything besides personal use. Someone’s house? Room feels a little too big to be a part of a house, though. No restraints, either. Not very bright, this one. Mediocre, disappointing. Unless… It’s the guns and camera trick again, isn’t it. That’s so lame, why do two out of five still end up doing that? No one else in the room, probably trying to lull me into a false sense of security. Some buff guy will probably come in any time now and wake me up with the most unpleasant method they can think of. Most likely yelling or a nice gunshot to the wall. Or the plain, predictable door slamming. Boring. Better take advantage of the time I have, while I still have it._

Blinking slowly and heavily like he was just waking up, Tony allows his eyes to wander in drowsy confusion, taking note of the distance between the bed and the door. The room is dim, full of muted earthy colours, mostly deep browns of wood with dark greens or blues and highlights of dull, ancient golds. Heavy and sturdy looking furniture is scattered around the large room, with the strange excessively elaborate designs that _old_ things had. Weak evening light filters in through the giant window on the farthest side of the room, and at this point Tony is questioning everything he knew.

Licking his dry lips nervously, Tony glances down, frowning at the thick dark blue blanket that is draped over him. _Now there’s a familiar colour. But where is it from?_ His gaze falls on a splash of bright red that is spread out on top of his blanket, and his sluggish mind stirs with a sense of faint recognition. He doesn’t know why, but Tony slides a hand out from under the blanket and gently lays it on the red material, his brain somehow knowing there should be a reaction but still not quite knowing what. The fabric under his hand twitches, curling around his fingers with a lively eagerness.  _Whoa. Strange. How’d it do that?_

Then Tony notices the white bandages that are wrapped around his left arm. Drawing his hand back from the red material that seemed to be sentient like he’d been burned, Tony turns his arm as he inspects the perfect loops of white fabric that stretched up towards his shoulder, enveloping his elbow and ending just shy of his wrist. Pulling his other arm out from under the blanket, Tony squints at the bandages covering his right palm, the rest of his arm bare. There are weird squiggly looking symbols on the fabric, and the sight of them jars a realization free from the mess of confusion in Tony’s head. _...Strange! The red thing, that’s his cape! ...Cloak, whatever._ Tony’s eyes widen in horror. _Siberia._

Frantic, he grabs at his chest, yanking the blanket down. There are bandages criss crossing his chest, shrouding his torso in white, just until the end of his ribs. They don’t cover the arc reactor, which glows a cheerful blue, no cracks in sight and perfectly whole where it resides in Tony’s chest. _...That was real. It was all real?_

Tony falls back against the pillow, eyes on the ceiling, mind reeling. His memories are scattered and broken, jagged and deadly, like shards of glass.

_“Stark?”_

_“I’m trying to help you.”_

_Clear blue (and green and grey? Are they even one colour?) eyes, worried and gentle._

_“It’s okay.”_

_“This is more important.”_

_Long, warm fingers, sliding through his hair, gently caressing._

_“And, and. That kid._ Your _kid.”_

_A low, soothing voice, murmuring magical power and strength. The odd sensation of pain fading from his fingers._

_“No, he’s not hurt.”_

_“Tony.”_

_Strong hands pulling his own from his chest. Panic flooding him; someone is trying to take the arc reactor, again._

_“Stark? Can you hear me?”_

_“Please, Tony.”_

_Careful hands pushing something into his chest, the familiar taste of metal and coconut flooding his tongue, unnatural power surging through his body._

_“I won’t hurt you, I promise.”_

Tony groans, pushing himself up into a sitting position. His whole body ached, all his muscles collectively protesting against his every movement. The Cloak slowly swirls up into the air, deliberate and graceful as it approaches. It settles around Tony’s shoulders, thick material soft and smooth against his skin, trapping warmth close to his body.

“What happened to being a loyal piece of outerwear,” Tony jokes, but his voice is rough and thin, like he’d recently been strangled.

Swinging his legs to the edge of the bed, Tony sets his bare feet on the wooden floor, wincing at the cold and feeling immensely thankful when he notices that he still has his pants on. He uses his hands to push himself up and off the bed; the instant his weight shifts forward to his legs, his knees buckle. The Cloak holds him up before he could hit the ground, floating Tony an inch off the ground. Tony had expected it to feel like something around his shoulders was tugging him up, but instead, it feels like his whole body went weightless and the Cloak was simply guiding where he was going. He can’t help the little giddy giggle that escapes, the sound small and pained. _Magic cape._

Setting Tony back on the bed, the Cloak drifts a short distance away, as if gauging his reaction. Stubborn, he immediately attempts to get back up. Swiftly, the Cloak slides forward, gently pushing Tony back. They repeat this for a few more minutes: Tony waiting for a few seconds between each of his endeavors to leave the bed, the Cloak promptly nudging him until he relents and falls back. The Cloak raises a corner pointedly in Tony’s direction, and when the billionaire moves forward, it lifts higher in a clear warning.

With a sigh, Tony nods in understanding, sliding under the blanket and sitting back against the pillows. _No getting up. Okay._ Seemingly satisfied, the Cloak zooms away, pushing the door of the room open just a crack and sliding through.

A few seconds later, Stephen Strange himself walks into the room, Cloak on his shoulders. However, the instant Stephen is a few steps away from the bed, it leaves the sorcerer and speeds to Tony, settling on the billionaire’s shoulders.

“I thought it was supposed to be loyal to no one except you,” Tony snarks, but it’s strained and weak. He coughs shakily with a wince, using a hand to lightly rub at his throat.

“It has apparently grown attached to you,” Stephen replies, as the Cloak curls around Tony like an affectionate cat. “Here, drink this.” He holds out a steaming mug that Tony hadn’t noticed earlier.

_Huh. I like him._

Stephen looks only mildly apologetic when he sees Tony’s eyes light up. “It’s not coffee.”

Tony scowls. _I take that back._

“It’s honey lemon tea, it’ll help your throat.” Stephen steps closer, offering the mug to Tony.

Just as Tony is about to sniff that he doesn’t like being handed things, Stephen lets the mug go, right above Tony’s legs. The billionaire startles, squeaking in alarm, but the mug floats, like it’s sitting on an invisible table.

“Okay. You can come in now,” Stephen calls to the general air in the room, and Tony frowns as he grabs the mug, too anxious about the possibility of it falling.

None other than Peter Parker darts into the room, rushing to Tony’s side with his hair sticking up in messy tufts.

“Kid? Why’re you here?” Tony immediately regrets his outburst, flinching as his throat angrily protests.

“He called me—” Stephen starts.

“You’re okay?” Peter weakly demands, eyes red.

“Still alive,” Tony quips quietly, and Peter’s eyes fill. “Hey, don’t do that. I’m fine. Are _you_ okay? You’re not looking so hot.”

Peter sniffles, blinking rapidly.

“He was really worried,” Stephen remarks offhandedly, focused on some weird glowing symbols in the air. _Hey those look familiar._ “Refused to sleep or do anything except watch the door of this room, since I didn’t let him stay here.”

“Hey,” Peter splutters wetly in protest, cheeks blooming red.

“Oh.” Tony feels like all the air had been forcefully pushed out of his lungs. “How long was I out?”

“About 20 hours.”

“...Jeez.” Out of habit, Tony raises the mug in his hands to his lips and takes a sip. It’s almost criminally sweet, but it soothes the pain in his throat, so he obediently continues drinking. “Hey, doc.”

Stephen hums distractedly in response.

“I’m fine, right?”

“Not too terrible, no.” Stephen nudges one cluster of symbols. “Head is mostly fine. Lingering concussion, could probably sleep that off.” He waves away another. “Arm and hand healed nicely; no breakage, so it was quick.” Stephen frowns at the last group of glowing symbols. “Ribs aren’t doing so well… Were pretty bad — broken — when I first brought you here, they’ve mended a little, but...”

“Still cracked?” Tony finishes.

“...Yes,” Stephen confirms, expression remorseful.

“Hm,” Tony shrugs, “that’s not too bad.” _That explains the extra pain in my chest. Could be worse._

“If you’d remove the other bandages,” Stephen says, waving a hand and casually sending a blanket floating over to the bed, “I can focus all the magic. Drink should help, some.”

“...You didn’t poison me, right,” Tony squints skeptically at the mug in his hand, but takes another sip.

“Minor healing properties. Mostly for aches and pain, but should help from the inside.”

“Magical leaves,” Tony giggles, gulping down the last of the liquid. Out the corner of his eye, he sees a small smile play at Stephen’s lips. “Huh, so you _can_ smile.” He busies himself with unraveling the bandages around his arm and hand when the sorcerer frowns.

Finally noticing that Peter had been uncharacteristically quiet for too long, Tony glances around, searching; he checks the bed itself last, and finds that Peter had fallen asleep, under the blanket Stephen had used magic to drape over him earlier. The teenager had tucked himself near the billionaire’s side, an arm curled around Tony’s waist. The weight had been so familiar that Tony had simply overlooked it. “Why do you always fall asleep near me,” Tony murmurs, running his fingers through Peter’s messy curls. “Am I really that boring?”

Peter smiles, sweet and sleepy. “Mmm. Safe with you,” he slurs drowsily, not bothering to open his eyes.

“Seriously, Spiderbaby,” Tony teases, but it’s so warm and affectionate that instead of being annoying, it’s more of an endearment.

Peter half-heartedly wrinkles his nose in response.

“You heard the wizard, right? Don’t cuddle me too hard, my ribs will kill me.”

“M’kay,” Peter hums, squeezing himself closer to Tony.

“Sorcerer, not wizard. Do you happen to know where Captain America is?” Stephen asks, tone flat and bored, as if he didn’t care about the answer.

“Nope,” Tony replies blithely, popping the p. “Oh, by the way, what did you do to my armour?”

“It’s at your tower. All of it.”

“Oh. ...Thanks.”

Stephen waves his hand, Tony’s empty mug and useless bandages floating into the air. “You should introduce him to me sometime,” he tosses over his shoulder as he leaves the room.

“...Sure?” _I thought he didn’t care about the Avengers._ Shrugging, Tony settles back against the pillows, the Cloak leaving his shoulders to drape over him like a second blanket. Sleep greets him like an old friend, welcoming and kind, and Tony forgets his pain.


	3. Waking Up From A Restful Sleep To Be Tired

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know that feeling when you’ve slept so well that you’re kind of drunk on sleep? You’re so relaxed and content and comfortable and sleepy (not as in you want to sleep more, because you’re satisfied, but as in you’re overall kinda spaced out with lingering drowsiness), that you do things you’d normally never do? That’s Tony in this one. I just really wanted to write a soft and sleepy cat-like Tony :(

Stephen slowly follows the distinctly rich and earthy scent of coffee through the dim halls. He'd been confused for a moment when he had first stepped out of his room; both Wong and Stephen drank tea, so there was never such a bold scent of dark roasted beans lingering in the air of the Sanctum. But Stephen had quickly remembered: _Tony Stark._

Stopping in the doorway of the kitchen, Stephen takes in the scene. Wong is sitting at the dining table, happily eating his way through a tuna sandwich with a steaming cup of tea at his side, eyes trained on the kitchen with an emotion Stephen is not interested enough to place. Following Wong's gaze, Stephen sees none other than Tony Stark leaning against the countertop of the island in the kitchen. More like sprawled, actually, his chin resting on his folded arms and most of his torso pressed to the granite. Tony's whole body is pointed toward the gleaming new coffee machine sitting on the kitchen counter near the sink, humming quietly as it dutifully brews the bitter liquid.

Stephen doesn't understand what Wong was so interested in. Besides the glaring fact that _Stephen's_ relic, the Cloak of Levitation, now clearly liked Tony more than its actual master, there wasn't anything worth staring at. Then Tony shifts, leaning his weight on one arm as he uses the other hand to lazily scratch at his back, elbow pushing the Cloak away from his body and revealing gloriously smooth, tanned skin. Stephen nearly chokes on the sharp breath he inhales. He whirls to level a glare at Wong, who simply shrugs, takes another bite of his sandwich, and pointedly gives Stephen a look — _It's right in front of me, why not appreciate it? —_  before going back to eyeing Tony.

Tony yawns, nose scrunching up adorably. He presses his cheek against his bicep with a soft sigh, hand idly curling into his disheveled hair. Stephen has a sudden urge to sink his own fingers into the soft ruffled tufts of chocolate brown; the urge is only further intensified when Stephen’s mind reminds him that he already knows how it feels. In an attempt to distract himself from the sleepy and half naked Tony bent over his kitchen counter, Stephen sends a whisper of magic through the air to make breakfast. Although there was no need for him to waste any attention supervising his magic when this is a routine thing for both it and him, Stephen watches as the freezer portion of the refrigerator opens, frozen waffles floating out and settling themselves into the double toaster.

“...Do you want a shirt?” Stephen offers, somewhat timidly.

“I’m good, thanks,” Tony mumbles without paying attention to Stephen’s words, propping himself up on an elbow and rubbing at his eyes.

Stephen thoroughly reprimands himself for feeling a flash of relief when Tony declined his offer, scowling at Wong, who doesn’t bother to hide his own amusement with the situation. Wong smirks and shrugs, taking a sip of his tea. Tony startles a little with a light frown when the toaster pops, head nodding forward as he dozes.

The hot waffles plate themselves, more drifting to the toaster to be toasted. A quiet yelp in the doorway catches the attention of everyone in the room. Stephen turns to see the kid — _Peter,_ he reminds himself — staring at Tony with wide eyes, cheeks flushing a bright red. Wong, unruffled, takes another sip of his tea. Tony simply blinks sleepily and stretches like a cat, lithe muscles tensing and flexing.

“Sit at the table,” Stephen instructs, “breakfast is waffles.”

Peter tears his eyes away from Tony with obvious effort, hustling himself to an empty seat. Tony flops briefly against the granite countertop with a sigh before dragging himself up to sit at the table. Stephen frowns, surprised to see Tony so quiet and so obedient when his personality is known to be loudly sarcastic and extremely difficult. Wong takes out a book, opens it, then thinks better of it and leaves the room with his tea.

The plate of waffles lands in front of Peter, who doesn’t hesitate to eat, happily cutting bite sized pieces and drowning them in syrup.

Tony suddenly sits upright in his seat, blinking bleary brown eyes open. “Coffee?”

“No coffee. Eat first,” Stephen tries.

Tony makes the saddest puppy dog eyes Stephen has ever seen, wide doe eyes sad and imploring. It doesn’t help that his hair is the most adorable mess, like he’d just rolled out of bed. _Not just like; he probably had._

Stephen sighs, and a mug of steaming coffee sets itself in front of Tony.

“Thank you,” Tony purrs happily with a sweet smile, wrapping his fingers around the warm mug.

“Mr. Wizard, you shouldn’t allow coffee before food,” Peter says, pointing his fork at Tony in an effort to emphasize his words, “Mr. Stark, you should eat first.”

Tony’s bottom lip juts out in a pout as he hunches protectively over his mug of coffee. Then he leans over and snatches the piece of waffle off Peter’s fork, chewing slowly and deliberately. Wrinkling his nose at the sweet syrup flooding his tongue, Tony dramatically swallows, then takes a small sip of coffee with a self satisfied smirk.

Peter freezes, mouth open.

“Ah. Nearly forgot. How are the ribs,” Stephen inquires, attempting to diffuse the sudden tension in the air and ignoring the urge to correct Peter for calling him a wizard. _Like father, like son, isn't it?_

Slumping against the table, Tony makes a vaguely dismissive sound. He looks ready to doze off again, brown eyes drifting shut.

“Tony?” Stephen prompts.

Tony huffs, pushing the Cloak aside to reveal his torso. Stephen bends closer, prodding gently at the warm skin, Tony breathing smoothly and easily as he tracks Stephen's movements with half lidded eyes and dim interest.

 _Perfect._ “All healed,” Stephen declares with a small pleased smile. Then he frowns. _He's so warm?_ Confused and a little — just a _little_ — concerned, Stephen presses a hand to Tony's forehead, the other on his own. _...Normal?_

Tony's lips twitch with his amusement as he taps his fingers against the arc reactor.

_Oh._

Frowning softly, Tony leans closer to Stephen, peering into his eyes. “What even,” he mumbles, squinting fiercely as he places his hands on Stephen's cheeks.

“...What are you doing?” Stephen blinks, feeling his cheeks warm under Tony's palms and intense gaze.

“Kid, what colour are his eyes,” Tony demands, pushing Stephen's head to face Peter.

Chewing serenely, Peter spends a long minute puzzling over the question. “Hm… Blue,” he finally replies, popping another piece of waffle into his mouth.

“Huh.” Tony turns Stephen back to face himself, his own eyes alight with innocent curiosity and bewilderment, studying Stephen like he’s a complex equation Tony needed to solve. “I see green,” the billionaire mutters to himself. “What was the word, hetero—”

“He— heterochromia,” Stephen blurts, fingers twitching restlessly under Tony’s scrutiny. “My eyes look like they’re different colours because they are. I have sectoral heterochromia.”

“That’s so awesome,” Peter chirps, “mine are just brown.”

Sliding his hands off Stephen’s cheeks, Tony turns to regard Peter with amused brown eyes.

“Uh, not to say that brown eyes are _boring_ or anything,” Peter splutters nervously, “Mr. Stark, I didn’t—”

Huffing a soft laugh, Tony lifts his mug to his lips. Just as he’s about to take a sip, he seems to realize something, moving to put the mug back down. Before it makes contact with the table, Tony is bringing the mug back up and drinking slowly. Stephen doesn’t see the way Peter watches Tony drink with a sorrowful resignation in his eyes; Stephen also doesn’t understand why Tony seemed so hesitant to drink the coffee he had been so adamant about having.

As the three eat waffles in companionable silence — Tony albeit rather reluctantly, slow tiny nibbles between sips of coffee, like he couldn’t stomach any food — Stephen bears witness as a castle takes shape. Piece by piece, brick by brick, room by room, a magnificent creation rises before his eyes. With each increasingly large sip of coffee Tony takes, a new brick slides into place, and Stephen sees the billionaire only getting more and more _tired._

Soon, it’s no longer just Tony sprawled against the table. The castle was finally whole, standing tall and proud; the Tony that had been relaxed and carefree, loose-limbed and soft with sleep, is replaced by something tense and wary, subtly hyper aware of himself and his surroundings. Sharp, intelligent brown eyes wander with a carefully cultivated disinterested and readily dismissive gaze, but Stephen recognizes the hidden genius behind those eyes, calculating and endlessly brilliant.

_Not just Tony, but Tony STARK._

Straightening up in his seat, Tony drains the mug. His cocky and self assured demeanor shrouds him like a vengeful fog, a second skin, sharp with sarcastic retorts and deliberately careless barbs that knew exactly where to stab to make it hurt the most.

Even Peter looks up from the food he'd be devouring with single minded intent like he hadn’t eaten anything in days, eyeing Tony with a sort of conflicting mix of emotion. It looked like he didn't know what to feel, like he was simultaneously both pleased and unhappy with the situation.

“It was great and all… I think it's time I—” Tony spares a quick glance at Peter, _“—we_  leave.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think Tony having Extremis is a confirmed thing in the MCU universe, but I like to think that those things he injected into his arms (for the Autonomous Prehensile Propulsion Suit[s]) leaves his body running just about half a degree or more higher than normal (plus, having a whole battery inside you would probably have an effect, right?)
> 
> (Just to be soft, I also like to think that since Peter can't thermoregulate, he enjoys cuddling Tony and stealing his heat. Warm and soft and cuddly Tony is always a win, everybody.)


	4. It's Too Early For This

Tony is pouring himself a fresh coffee in the kitchen when he is alerted of an intruder.

Not just any kind of pouring. He’s angrily dumping the scalding liquid into his mug, shoving the barely depleted coffee pot back into the machine with more force than necessary, nearly sending some sloshing over the rim. Someone had had the audacity to forget restocking the cupboard down in his lab with his favourite ground coffee beans, and he’d forced himself to continue working for hours without his caffeine, anger heating to a boil as time passed. He’d only been lightly appeased by the somehow satisfying action of dismantling and melting down his damaged armour, dismayed by the destruction he was causing to his own creation but also so very pleased with it. This was the armour he’d been nearly killed in. The dead armour he’d been left to die in. The armour he’d been _weak_ in; he’d been blinded by grief and rage in the light of his parents’ murder, been too soft against two enhanced super soldiers tearing at his exposed heart, and he’d suffered the deadly consequences. Oh, how he’d _suffered._

And so Tony takes apart his weak self in the form of his war torn armour, takes the pieces and uses them as the stepping stones for his new and stronger self. He takes the pieces of his weakness, lights them with a blue flame burning with his conviction, and is reborn from the ashes.

Once he’d melted down the damaged Mark and formed it into thick sheet metal, then used it to blanket the tops of his sturdy wooden worktables, Tony had finally given in to the siren’s call of caffeine and had impatiently waited for the machine to finish brewing, hopping up onto the kitchen counter and swinging his legs. He’d been patient for hours for this coffee. This intruder had better be prepared, for Tony Stark is not in a good mood.

“Who is it,” Tony asks, tone deceptively light and conversational.

“A James Buchanan Barnes,” FRIDAY reports.

Tony promptly chokes on the first sip of his coffee; he’d been expecting to hear a name he wouldn’t recognize. Hastily setting the mug down onto the counter next to him, Tony hunches over, coughing weakly as the coffee scorched a blazing trail down his throat. _“What?”_

“Shall I remove the intruder from the premises?”

If Tony didn't know any better, he'd think FRIDAY enjoyed “removing” people from the premises.

“No. Not yet— Do you know what he wants?”

“He seems to be searching for something.”

_They always want something._

“At least he's not _loudly_ searching.” Tony sighs. “Send him here, I don't want him waking the kid. Do _not_ speak with him, FRI.”

“Yes, boss.”

Tony slides smoothly off the granite counter, landing silently on the floor. He grabs his mug, taking a large gulp as he saunters to the cluster of plush sofas surrounding a glass coffee table. Practically falling onto one, Tony leisurely drinks his coffee, feeling his mild headache retreat with the introduction of caffeine. Instructing FRIDAY to lower the lights, he watches the dark night sky through the giant windows, childishly fascinated by the ethereal silver light cast by the glowing crescent moon.

He's no master assassin, but Tony had trained himself to notice light footfalls and breathing; if his ears fail to pick up a sound, there's always his strangely accurate sense for a presence besides his own in a room. This time it's the latter, for he doesn't hear anything, but he does notice the new solid presence and sharp eyes trained on his back.

“Tony Stark,” a low voice says, soft and hesitant, as if trying not to startle Tony.

Not bothered in the slightest, Tony takes a slow sip of coffee. “Here to kill me, Buckaroo?”

“No.” The reply is full of pain and sorrow with an edge of weak irritation, as if he couldn’t believe that Tony would think such a thing. But it’s firm, earnest and determined with a child’s sincerity, so Tony resolutely holds back the numerous sarcastic retorts sitting on the tip of his tongue.

“It’s way past work hours,” Tony quips, twisting around to peer over the back of the sofa at the assassin hovering nervously in the doorway. “What do you want, Barnes?”

“I…” Bucky glances up and meets Tony’s gaze for half a second, gloved right hand lifting to rest lightly on the sleeve of his left arm. It’s much too fast — Bucky’s eyes are trained on the ground again, already — and the distance is too large for Tony to get a good glimpse of Bucky’s eyes, but he recognizes the desperation in the way the sniper stood. He recognizes the nervous set of those shoulders, the way Bucky was already braced for rejection. “...I don’t know how to fix it.”

 _Oh._ Tony blinks, surprised. He had not expected that. Suddenly, everything made sense: why Bucky had been wandering around the empty halls of the Tower searching for Tony; why Bucky had chosen such a time; why Bucky had broken in instead of calling or sending a message or even having someone pass along a note. Leaning over, Tony sets his mug on the glass coffee table, the _clink_ startling Bucky into raising his head to warily eye him for the sudden noise.

Bucky lowers his eyes yet again, looking remarkably like a kicked puppy as he steps backward to leave. “Sorry for… breaking in.”

“Okay,” Tony interrupts.

Once again, Bucky meets Tony’s gaze, eyes wide with reluctant hope.

“C’mere.” Tony nods his head to the space beside him on the sofa.

Slowly, with the air of a man walking himself to the gallows, Bucky approaches Tony, his heavy black combat boots somehow not making a single sound as he steps forward.

“You didn't bring any buddies,” Tony nonchalantly observes once Bucky is perched stiffly beside him. It wasn't a question, because he already knew the answer; he was making a statement, making sure Bucky knew that he knew.

“No,” Bucky answers. His tone says _I know it isn't a smart idea to_ and Tony finds himself reluctantly impressed by Bucky's insight.

“Hm. Talk to me.” Tony stands and strolls back toward the kitchen. “Nope. You're staying there,” he tosses back over his shoulder, pinning a guilty looking Bucky with a stern stare. Grabbing a glass from the dishwasher, Tony stands in front of the open fridge, turning his head to glance back. “Want some milk?”

Bucky's uncomfortably stiff posture manages to become worse, his sheepish child-caught-red-handed expression smoothing out to an eerie blankness. Tony recognizes it; he's seen that expression before. Both Natasha and Clint would put that unnerving blankness on like a cold mask whenever they were serious about a mission, neatly packing away their feelings and tells, turning all calm and clinically detached like perfect robotic soldiers that lived to follow orders.

“...Orange juice it is.”

Deliberately, Tony fills the glass facing Bucky, letting sharp eyes catalogue his every move. He sets it on the coffee table, grabbing his mug to take a large gulp of coffee as he returns to his seat next to Bucky. It’s a buffer, giving Bucky something to do if he finds it difficult to talk.

Bucky takes a hesitant sip, eyes lighting up as the taste of the cold liquid spreads on his tongue. He drains half the glass in one long swallow, then clears his throat. “...It… The person who helped reattach it— Didn’t know…”

Tony narrows his eyes. “It’s connected to you.”

“It,” Bucky squeezes his flesh fingers around the glass, and Tony hopes he doesn’t have to clean any glass shards from his floor, “...hurts.”

“Geez,” Tony sighs. “Finish that. We’ll fix your problem after.”

Ten minutes later, they're down in Tony's lab. Bucky's sitting on the worn sofa that Tony occasionally takes both planned and unplanned naps on; he's stripped down to a solid black t shirt, his dark leather jacket and gloves sitting in a neat pile next to him.

Tony can't help muttering lowly about the shoddy work that held the metal arm together, complaining about the messy welding job as he gently pries off the plating to see the complex wires and gears inside. It's pretty impressive, HYDRA’s work. Even though he could probably put together something much better in his sleep, Tony finds himself impressed by how delicate the craftsmanship is, buried inside the protective casing that shaped the arm, for something of this caliber does require a great deal of knowledge. His mind is already happily racing away, creating plans for a new version of the arm, with sleeker plating and a lighter but more durable blend of metals. He hasn’t studied enough to know everything about human nerves and pain receptors, but that’s an easy fix — he’s always eager to learn more about things he doesn’t understand. For now, Tony settles his desire to _know_ by mentally cataloging every inch of the metal arm as he exposed it, carefully monitoring Bucky as he does so to make sure he isn’t in any pain from Tony’s exploring.

Bucky is perfectly content to sit silently at Tony’s side, more relaxed and comfortable than he’d ever been the whole night, still insistently watching the billionaire’s every move. But this time, he’s not wary and cautious; he’s _curious,_ Tony realizes with no small amount of wonder, curious like a young innocent child would be upon seeing something for the first time, like he’d never gotten the opportunity to see how his own metal arm worked despite it having been attached to him for years. So Tony finds himself working a lot slower than he usually would, complaining about faults and explaining possible amendments a little louder to himself in simpler terms, quietly requesting for different tools that he’d tossed into Bucky’s lap earlier to keep them within arm’s reach. Despite being a touch shy and nervous at first, Bucky settles into a quick rhythm with Tony after learning the different names and tones Tony used to inquire for a specific tool, carefully offering it forward as he watched Tony work with rapt fascination.

“Tony.”

Tony yelps, slicing the pad of a finger open on a jagged side of Bucky’s arm as he fumbles with the tool that he’d dropped in his surprise, trying desperately to protect his crotch. It lands on the inside of his thigh — likely going to have a bruise later — and he finds himself more irritated by the warm blood welling from the cut than the pain. “Give a man a heart attack, why don’t you,” Tony whines, staring at the bright crimson blooming on his finger.

Shifting, Bucky plants himself more securely in front of Tony, metal arm stationary where it rested on the sofa but flesh hand curling into a tight fist. He’s being _protective._ Of Tony. The billionaire can’t help feeling both astounded and flattered by the knowledge.

“Geez, it’s too early for this.” Tony blows gently on the cut, wincing lightly as the blood slides down his finger and smears across the adjacent one. “What do you want, Strange?”

“Are you aware that someone is attempting to break in,” Stephen replies smoothly, glowing teleportation portal still open behind him.

“He already did,” Tony sighs, frowning down at his bleeding hand in distaste, as if it would instantly heal if he glared hard enough. He glances briefly back up in time to see Stephen lower his brows in mild confusion before reaching into the circle and making a forward tugging motion.

There's the sound of someone landing hard, their knees meeting the floor of Tony's lab.

“Steve?” Bucky breathes, voice soft with confusion and disbelief.

Looking back up, Tony blinks at Steve, eyes wide. “It's too early for this,” he repeats with a low groan. “Why are you here in the first place, doc?”

“Checking in,” Stephen remarks flippantly, “and it has missed you.”

Tony raises an eyebrow.

“Come on before I change my mind,” Stephen turns to drawl into the portal, and a streak of red speeds through right before Stephen closes it.

Tony laughs softly in delight as the Cloak settles around his shoulders with clear affection, gently squeezing around the billionaire's sides until Tony makes a sound caught between a yelp and a hiccup, body tensing.

“Does it still hurt?” Stephen immediately demands, narrowing his eyes as the Cloak frantically waves its ends in apology.

“Not really, just kind of aches,” Tony dismisses, realizing too late that he'd spoken far too quickly. He can practically see the suspicion rising in Stephen.

“I did advise you to stay a little longer.”

“Yeah, well, some of us have work to do.”

Stephen approaches, slowly, and Tony only spares him a single largely disinterested glance before cautiously licking at the blood on his fingers. Bucky tenses but doesn’t make any aggressive moves, sitting alert and defensive next to Tony. Long careful fingers run gently over Tony’s ribs, testing, and he doesn’t move until he can’t take it anymore— he squirms. “Okay, that’s enough.”

Amusement floods Stephen’s face as realization dawns, his eyes sparkling with his delight. “You’re—”

“Why don’t you go get me some coffee, since you decided to barge in here unannounced,” Tony snaps, choking on a high noise when Stephen drags light teasing fingers down his side with a devious smirk. “Quit—”

Lifting his hands into the air in a mock gesture of surrender, Stephen takes a single step back. Leaning over Tony, he draws a circle above the billionaire's wounded hand, murmuring under his breath. A glowing gold loop appears, curling around in the air and intricate with ancient symbols around the edges.

Warmth floods Tony's hand, the wound knitting itself closed under his incredulous gaze. “Huh, that's useful,” he muses, waving a dismissive hand at Stephen. “Now, shoo.”

The sorcerer rolls his eyes toward the ceiling in exasperation, but obligingly steps into a portal, disappearing. Tony frowns at the coffee machine sitting on the other side of the large lab, briefly wondering why Stephen needed a whole portal just for a coffee. He'd even personally brought down a package of his favourite ground coffee beans earlier, with Bucky; having been too enthusiastic about working on Bucky's arm, Tony had overlooked the need to brew coffee.

“Since you’re already here, make yourself comfortable,” Tony throws at Steve, washing the partially dry blood off his fingers at the sink, silently marveling at his perfectly intact skin.

He's stalking back toward the sofa with clean hands, mood slightly dampened by the newest intruder but still interested enough in Bucky’s arm not to be truly irritated, when Tony finally realizes there's something wrong with this picture. Frowning, he paces around Steve as a short detour in the route to his destination, eyes lingering on the magical glowing lines binding Steve's wrists together behind his back. From the lack of any angry words from Steve, Tony assumes that Stephen had also somehow rendered the blond’s voice useless.

Returning to his work on Bucky's arm, Tony is torn between feeling an overwhelming wave of satisfaction to see Steve on his knees — essentially bound and gagged — and feeling guilty, that Steve didn't deserve to be treated this way. So he waits for Stephen to appear again before remarking with a casual tone, like one would when discussing the weather: “As much as I appreciate the gesture, you can’t just tie people up like that.”

Stephen looks displeased by the notion, but raises a hand to snap once and Steve is released, coughing faintly.

Disturbed by how easily he’d adapted to _magic,_ Tony grabs the mug Stephen had sent his way out of the air, frowning down at the liquid that was not nearly dark enough to be coffee. “This isn’t coffee.”

“Obviously,” Stephen replies, looking much too pleased with himself for Tony’s liking.

Tony scowls. “I need coffee, not this.” Nonetheless, he takes a sip of the drink he recognizes as what he’d called magical leaves earlier, allowing it to ease the lingering pain in his ribs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any ideas on how Stephen could bash Steve? I'm curious to know what you all want to see happen :'))
> 
> (Talk to me on [tumblr](https://endlessnepenthe.tumblr.com/) ! )


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